Tarjun worried that he was going insane. Lately, he felt that his days were getting shorter while his nights only seemed to increase in length. His life was dull and monotonous, an uninspiring longshot from the dreams he once had. Master Ardan’s death had drained him of everything that made life somewhat worthwhile. He cursed himself for letting it come this far.
Coward.
He tried focusing on his meditation but couldn’t properly apply his mind while that bloody usurper was in the room with him. Tarjun peered at his current master. Ferran sat in front of his predecessor’s Minotaur statue, ventured deep within his summoning trance. Had he not known any better, Tarjun would have thought him a solemn and peaceful man.
But Tarjun did know better. These days, the mere sight of Ferran’s slender but athletic frame and long white hair was enough to make him physically ill. And how could he not feel that way? Master Ferran was a murderer. Nothing but a thug who had killed the man who had taught Tarjun everything all he knew. How could he serve a man like that? Contempt slithered through his body as he thought of it.
Tarjun tried to swallow his feelings but could not keep the anger from crawling deeper into his psyche. Had he been wrong to stay at Sekuheim?
“No,” he told himself. Without him, all the other disciplines would be left in the hands of that maniac. Everyday life at the school may have been terrible but Tarjun knew that he couldn’t just abandon his late masters’ disciples like that. As an instructor, he was responsible for their fates. At least, that was surely what Ardan would have expected.
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And yet, Tarjun was starting to feel that his mere presence and watchful eye were not enough anymore. He felt that Ferran was beginning to act more and more erratically by the day. The man came up with absurd training training regimens such as leaving his disciples in the wilderness for days or having them physically fight one after another until they collapsed from exhaustion. But the master’s latest quirk was even more insane. Ferran would handpick his most talented disciples and send them into exile to embark on so-called developmental journeys which he deemed necessary for them to become powerful and well-rounded summoners. Tarjun couldn’t disagree more with the approach; summoning was a serious matter and inexperienced disciples needed as much guidance and support as possible.
What kind of man could kick out those he was supposed to protect?
The longer Tarjun thought about the predicament, the more he realized that somebody had to stop this man. His decision was easily made. This could no longer continue. Tarjun stood up, straightened his posture and walked up to his master.
“Master Ferran,” he said, trying to sound as stern and confident as possible. “I challenge you to a classic duel.”
Ferran’s lips folded into a smirk as he opened his eyes and illuminated the entire room with his entranced gaze.
“You wish to face me in a deathmatch?”
The master’s demeanor darkened to the point where Tarjun swore he could sense a shift in the air. Ferran stared at his would-be opponent, his bloodlust radiating from Essence.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Tarjun replied.
It was too late to turn back now.